


Smoke and Mirrors

by Jairissa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jairissa/pseuds/Jairissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the screams of her fans that Ginny likes best. It's a shame that sometimes they can't fill the void inside her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Mirrors

It is the screams that Ginny likes best. The roaring cheers, the pleased shrieks and the applause that is so loud that the stadium shakes with it. She loves the way it echoes, how she can close her eyes and almost think she is drowning in sound waves that are so overwhelming they almost become physical sensation. It makes her full, her smile so broad her face aches with it and Ginny loves that too. She will hover above the stadium, eyes closed, savouring the sound until her body shakes in excitement.

Then there is silence again and it is over until the next match, the next victory. Sometimes in the space between, when her eyes ring with the silence, she believes that it doesn't matter to her who is the victor as long as she can hear the noise again. The thought only lasts until she is next in the air, snitch released and has to be the first one to it, has to feel the thrill of the snitch beating in her hand like a small heart, hearing the groan of disappointment from her opponent before the cheers start. Then her ears are full of the blessed sound of people screaming for her, making her whole again.

Those are the times Ginny is happiest. It is the spaces between that bother her. She can fill some of them easily enough with practices and training. She fills others with the small, mundane details that she thinks are meant to take more time than she is willing to spend on them. She eats, occasionally, when she realises she is hungry and remembers to buy food. She showers more quickly than even her brothers and cares little for the boredom of making her hair into the 'pretty' styles her mother begs for. She cut it all off, once, which entertained her for weeks; Molly's outrage still makes her laugh when she thinks of it.

This moment, she decides, is tolerable. She is watching someone else fly which has never been her way; if she can't participate herself she prefers not to be involved at all. Where is the fun in watching when you're capable of doing it yourself? She remains because she believes the pay-off will be worthwhile -- despite the good six years since she first saw Krum play in person he is still the best and that is the one lesson Ginny has learned: you cannot win if you don't know the battle you're fighting.

The World Cup is coming again and Ginny intends to win it. It matters little to her that they have reportedly yet to make a final decision as to who will be on the team. If there is a spot, she will have it, regardless of how much she will need to practice first. She has all the time in the world for it and the determination to make it there. That has always been enough before.

"And Krum has the snitch!" She hears the excited commentator announce. Ginny closes her eyes out of habit, the sensation of hearing this from the stand almost entirely different to hearing it from the air. She closes her eyes, head falling back and her lips parting in excitement as the sound builds up to an inevitable crescendo. It flickers in every part of her, her body tingling from toes to the tips of her hair and she smiles with the beauty of it.

When she opens her eyes again it is to the sensation of being watched. She has become used to it, almost craves it sometimes and she smiles in amusement. It is him, it seems. She supposes she has been conspicuous in one of the player's boxes; Krum is certainly watching her with barely contained approval.

His mouth moves, forming words that Ginny can't decipher. She reaches for her bag, pulling out a stray piece of parchment and a self-inking quill that she has taken to carrying with her. She can't quite recall why, but it serves her well now as she writes one word, _Hermione_ , and holds it up to him. If he really wants to contact her he will work out what that means. She rather hopes he will -- hearing his secrets from the source would be far more satisfying than spending countless hours here, puzzling them out for herself.

He nods and Ginny tosses her quill back in to her bag, abandoning the parchment carelessly. She doesn't look back as she makes her way out of the now unlocked door, mind already turning to her own match that night and the knowledge that even if, for the first time, she doesn't make it to the snitch she will have another of these lovely moments, filled with enough sound to make her quake.

~**.**~

There is a letter waiting for her when she gets home, alongside a wrapped parcel. She recognises the handwriting, of course. She would have even were it not Wednesday again and Neville's slower day of classes where he likes to keep in touch with all of his Hogwarts friends. She writes him back more often than not; Ron will occasionally, Hermione faithfully, Harry and Luna often not at all, although for entirely different reasons. She is not sure Luna will even get his notes, wherever she is now, and Harry...well, Harry never seemed to have much time for anyone but Ron and Hermione and occasionally Ginny herself, the latter of which hs become almost non-existant recently.

It will be a plant again. It is the same every week. Some type of flower or pot plant that always has some other small surprise to added, whether it had a cheering charm cast on it or healing sap for her bumps and bruises. She is running out of room for them, which isn't a bad thing. Her talent for Herbology is non-existent – she can, and likely will, use the lack of room as an excuse for disposing of the old ones before it becomes obvious that she has killed them through neglect.

She leaves this one for a later opening. She has spotted yet another of her flatmate's notes on her bed through her open bedroom door and she abandons her bag carelessly on the floor to see what vitriol he has left for her this time.

 _The dirt from the plant you knocked over when you left this morning remains exactly where it fell. Clean it up before I get home._

 _-H_

Sighing, Ginny waves her wand at the offending mess. The fact that it takes less than a second to clean does little for her continuing annoyance; by the time she reaches the living room to ensure that not a speck remains on the soft, grey carpet she is stomping her feet, throwing her weight against the furniture rather than dodging around it as she usually does.

It is not that she minds cleaning up her own messes, she is more than content to take responsibility for any accident she has. It is, always, the fact that by trying to accommodate him it only makes things worse. She must have knocked the plant over as she was sneaking out of the house. His royal highness tended to prefer to rise a great deal later than she needed to be up for Quidditch practice, and if she had been able to turn the lights on as she left, she is sure she would not have knocked into anything.

Sinking on to the couch, Ginny closes her eyes as she relaxes against the fluffy cushions. She resolves to write back to Neville before she leaves for the night's game. If she leaves it longer than that she is sure that she will forget entirely and weeks will pass before she has time to think.

Time seems more fluid to her now – it passes without Ginny ever realising it has. It firms her resolve to live now, here, in this moment. If she does not think of it now, she is not sure that he ever will, and she has no desire to create any more gaps in her memory.

~**.**~

Ginny wipes herself off slowly, savouring the last drips of sweat cascading down her face as she peels her uniform off, layer by layer. The roar of the crowd as they realise the Harpies were making it to the finals again still echoes in her mind and she smiles as she walks to the shower.

Her team-mates have long gone, to celebrate in their various ways. She knows that she has a standing invitation to join any of them that she wishes, even if they vanish eons before she lands. Ginny prefers to celebrate alone, a glass of her favourite wine in her hand as she dances to the resonance of her memories of the match, spinning around in her flat until she is dizzy with it.

She takes pleasure in her leisurely shower, soaking in it and rejoicing in every individual drop of water she can detect. Her body is still alive with excitement, her chest constricting as she rests against the wall, using her wand to deflect the water from it's straight downward path to her overheated body, the coldness of it gradually sobering her.

It is only when she thinks she can walk straight again that Ginny walks herself out of the shower, dressing in the same clothes she had worn before the game. She needs to do laundry again, somehow she has managed to run out of clothes without realising. She is sure that His Royal Highness will protest her taking the Muggle washing machine for a full day, as he always does. She simply cannot be bothered to learn the spells her mother knows, not when there are far more interesting things to fill her time.

She pulls her hair into a tight ponytail as she walks out the door, resolving to cut it again soon. It's entirely too much bother for it's own good these days – if it weren't easier to pull back longer hair than it was shorter, Ginny thinks she would have been rid of it months ago. She is so occupied with this activity that she fails to notice that she is not alone in the stadium hallway, and that she has been surprised again without her consent.

"You are good," the voice says slowly. Even if Ginny had not been studying him carefully for the past week, she would have recognised that voice anywhere. It is unusually deep, the accent still not adept at its new language.

Ginny smiles, near smirks, as she tosses her backpack over her shoulder. "I should hope so," she retorts, taking a moment to look him over properly. He looks startling different without his Quidditch robes, the Muggle clothes he had clad himself in a fascinating contrast to the image of him that she has in her head. "I certainly practice enough."

He nods, face understanding and Ginny is glad that someone can relate to it. She is far too accustomed to her family's complaints that she works too hard, that they never see her. She thinks that a fellow Quidditch player's dedication might be a nice balm to her own frustration.

"It has paid off," he says, pushing himself away from the wall. His grace doesn't seem to translate well from a broomstick to the ground, his movements far more awkward than she remembered of him. "Even I vould not haff tried your last trick. I thought you vould fall."

Ginny remembers that play. She had designed it herself, claiming to the annoyed coach that it was designed to look as though she would hurtle to the ground, even as she remained perfectly in control of her movements. It was meant as something that would shock the other team into pause long enough for her to head for the Snitch. The last part, at least, was true; the first she exaggerated. As controlled as her movements were, she liked the feeling of falling; of the ground rising towards her and only her skill preventing her from reaching it at full speed.

"You can borrow it if you like," Ginny says cheekily, leaning against the wall he has just vacated. She feels his body tense and she moves away from him before he can move towards her, adjusting her bag so that it stopped digging into her shoulder.

She sees him realise her intent and he stops before he manages to start, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. "It is impossible to pick sometink up when you haff not been taught it," he says. Ginny has to bite back a smile, pleased that he has picked up on her hint without her having to prod him further towards it.

"We'll have to practice it together sometime," she says lightly, gesturing towards the empty field. "Just let me know when you want to try."

~**.**~

"And don't forget your assignments!" Neville tells his departing class, voice entertained. Ginny can tell, before she thinks Neville himself realises it, that not a single one of those students will be penalised should they fail to get their projects in on time. He has always been kind-hearted, and she is sure that kindness will extend even more than usual towards students who have already been through far more than they should have.

Ginny remains lurking behind the doorway until the room is vacated of all but Neville, a soft smile on her face as she pokes her head inside. She had been glad when she finally managed to leave here, her bad memories of the place far outweighing her good, eternally glad that she had been offered a place with the Harpies so that she would not need to continue her education. Still, the odd trip back is still worthwhile, especially when it comes to seeing her friends.

"Gin!" Neville says, and there is genuine pleasure on his face. Ginny still feels guilty that she spent so much time thinking ill of Neville for his lack of confidence, considering how wonderful he was under all that shyness. She thinks sometimes that she will never be able to do enough to make up for it, however much she tries. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Popping in with a present," Ginny says promptly, holding out a wrapped package. It took her hours to track down the right thing, but thankfully Hermione was able to pull enough strings to find it for her. "To thank you for all the ones you've given me."

Neville's smile is broad, lighting up his entire face with pleasure. "You didn't need to do that," he says, happiness tinting his voice. This reaction convinces Ginny that she very much _did_ need to do exactly that, but chose not to pursue the issue. "The pleasure of your company has always been enough, you know that."

"I do," Ginny says wryly, pulling herself on to one of the tables, careful not to brush herself against any of the potentially poisonous plants. "But I've hardly been generous with that lately either, have I?"

"Yes, well, none of us have had very much time for that lately, have we?" Neville asks jovially, and Ginny's smile falters a little. He's right, she knows; all of their 'old gang' has been busy lately, but she cannot help but think quite a bit of it is her fault. She is always being invited to things she turns down for what she considers to be 'better things'.

He reaches for the present she has put on the table in front of him and Ginny keeps her eyes carefully trained on his face. She wants to remember this, to see every flicker of Neville's expression as he finally realises what she has managed to track down for him after months of effort.

He unwraps the gift carefully, a direct contrast to her own habit of ripping at the paper to more easily determine what is waiting for her inside. She tears her eyes from his face to watch as his long fingers slide slowly along the tape, revealing the bright red box inside.

His cautiousness turns to curiosity as he opens the lid before turning to apparent confusion as he sees two wands inside. She knows he has read the inscriptions when that confusion turns to shock and then awe as he raises stunned eyes to meet Ginny's own.

" _Frank and Alice Longbottom,_ " he whispers, voice cracking on the last word. Ginny tries to smile, the bitterness that matches this sweetness almost stopping her from keeping the expression from her face. Instead she reaches her hand out to cover his own, softened by how much her present has affected him.

"I thought they would be better with you than they would be with sitting and gathering dust in the Ministry," she says softly, strangely breathless as his thumb brushes over the back of her hand.

"Thank you," Neville says thickly, turning his eyes away from her. It is not quickly enough, Ginny thinks; he does not quite manage to hide the brief shine of tears.

~**.**~

 _The milk you have left in the fridge is out of date and beginning to smell. Remove it before our home begins to smell more rotten than it does already._

 _-H_

Ginny, in a more energetic and petty mood than she is used to, has decided that if His Royal Majesty intends to be pompous and overbearing about something as small as milk that is two days out of date, then she will scrub the entire fridge in an attempt to drive away any possible complaint he may have.

Normally she would excise this excess energy by practicing. Today, however, is Wednesday; her coach had insisted that Wednesday was to be a no practice day, where they were all to regain their energy by resting as much as possible. While she is there, she makes a note of any of his favourite foods that are reaching their used by dates so she will be able to remove them promptly, before they can cause a problem.

She is able to remove several such specimens this way, a few so old they are close to forming their own civilisations. His side of the fridge looks as it always has: perfectly organised, disgustingly healthy and containing enough mould to wallpaper her bedroom.

Wrinkling her nose, Ginny has to admit that her side is just as bad. The smell is much more pleasant when she is done with her cleaning, although she is slightly put out to realise that after her impromptu cleaning, there is little left there that she an actually eat. She mentally adds 'grocery shopping' to her list of errands, although she knows it may well be weeks before she gets around to any of them.

It is far easier to concentrate on the chores that are in front of her, rather than the ones that require her to haul herself around Diagon Alley. At least here, in her empty flat, she can have her small Muggle television on full volume as she dances around, cleaning anything that catches her eye.

The place is sparkling by the end of the day, and Ginny collapses on the couch in agitation. She is still not tired, and she knows that if she wants to become so she will need to venture out on the very chores that she has been avoiding. In an attempt to circumvent them, she checks the place that has been designated for mail, hoping that something will have been delivered since the last time she had checked.

Nothing waits for her, and Ginny makes a face as she turns towards where she has left her keys. It seems that she will, indeed, be forced to leave the flat. She has few enough moments when she is free from His Royal Majesty's presence, able to enjoy the space in relative peace. Giving up any of them seemed entirely unfair to her.

Reaching for her bag, she stuffs the quill that she seemed entirely unable to keep where it belonged back in its pocket, pulling the zip across impatiently. Somehow it is still not enough; somehow the place is still not clean enough. Not for him, anyway.

~**.**~

She passes _him_ on her way out of the apartment, in their cramped hallway, his dark eyes showing the same disappointment she always seems to see. She hadn't realised he was home, he must have been hiding again. It has become almost a game for her, whether she can gain his approval. Once, in an attempt to prove a point, she had her mother over to clean the apartment from top to bottom. That was the last thing he said to her; everything since then has been in the form of a note, written in an immaculate handwriting that Ginny could not think to emulate.

Thankfully the Quidditch pitch calls to her, as it always does, and she is able to forget any smaller distractions as she hovers above the pitch. Even without her screams she is able to imagine, every movement causing an ache in her muscles that she knows would eventually result in a victory that no one will ever be able to take away from her.

She is imagining that, the ear shattering screams, on her broom above the pitch as she is rudely interrupted, her dream falling apart more easily than she had imagined it could. "You are better than I thought."

Ginny frowns, body tightening for a moment before relaxing in recognition. "I'm sorry you had such low expectations," she says, a smile on her face before she can consciously think of it. "I'd like to think that almost anyone in this league would have the ability to challenge you."

She examines Viktor carefully, brown eyes meeting his darker ones in challenge. He does not falter under her gaze and she feels a strange thrill at it. "I haff learned that challenges are hard to find," he says, voice more sure than it is arrogant. Ginny wants to argue, but finds it pointless; Viktor is the best. That is why she is so determined to defeat him.

"Then you're not looking hard enough," Ginny points out, stretching upwards until she is able to open her eyes without feeling giddy. The light is so dazzling when she opens her eyes that she has to shake herself, hair flying around her face as she tries to properly right her thoughts. "It's the standard rule of life, right? There's always someone better than you."

That does not sit well with him; Ginny can see it in the narrowing of his eyes, and the stiffening of his muscles on the broom he has brought out on to the pitch. "Surely you are used to being the best?" He asks, eyebrows rising as though he has scored some sort of point against her.

"Not as long as you're around," she says easily, smiling as though she admits defeat every day. It is worth it, she decides as he matches her grin, eyes sparkling as brightly as her own. "But surely that's half the fun?"

 

~**.**~

"You're not going out like that?" His royal majesty asks, lip curled in disapproval. Ginny takes it as a compliment, the old fashioned garb he prefers far out of her comfort zone. She can't help but feel a small thrill that she has managed to crack his self-imposed silence, the fury in his dark eyes showing her that he knows exactly what she's thinking. "You look like a harlot."

Ginny looks striking; even without the full-length mirror she is able to tell that. Perhaps she may never pass for naturally beautiful, but with the help of specially selected clothing and makeup she is able to make herself interesting enough to look at. The high leg-line, at least, makes her utterly fascinating for a first date.

"I am," she tells him loftily, twirling in front of the mirror. "Tell me you can't keep your eyes off me."

He does not answer and Ginny takes that as a victory, knowing that if he were able to refute her words, he would have done that by now. She exits the apartment with a thump of the door. It will annoy him, she knows, but it is a satisfying sound to her; crashes are as much a sign of an ending as sharp, piercing rings are of a beginning.

"You are early," are the next words Ginny hears and she is pleased with the surprise in them. Lateness is both a waste of her own time and the person that is waiting for her. She is not the kind of person to keep anyone waiting, least of all herself.

"It was for seven, wasn't it?" She asks, knowing full well that is the time they had arranged. It would be impossible to forget: in between the brightness of his eyes and the wideness of his smile, Ginny did not think she would have been able to refuse Viktor anything.

He clears his throat, standing awkwardly so that he can pull her seat out for her. "That is true," he says carefully, his dark eyes piercing into Ginny's with such intensity that she found her knees buckling and had to pretend that she had simply decided to sit rather than admit to the weakness she had shown. "But most vomen as pretty as you vish to prove a point."

Ginny smiled, shrugging her shoulders as though her collapse had been intentional. "I'm not most women," she said, plucking the wine list of the table, knowing that she had no intention of ordering off it. Wine evidenced more of a loss on control that she was willing to allow herself. "And I think that our time is limited enough as it is."

She focuses her eyes on the list so that she does not have to see whether Viktor approves or not. Despite this she can _feel_ his approval thrumming through her, and when she looks up with her decision of a sparkling mineral water, she catches the faintest hint of a smile before her companion is distracted by the food menu.

"I feel like vater," he announces, closing the carefully decorated paper. "And I tink the chicken. Vot do you vish for, Ginny?"

~**.**~

 _Your flowers smell like Death. Remove them before they rot. Honestly, don't you have enough boyfriends?_

 _-H_

Ginny laughs, twirling on the spot. She is used to flowers, but these are different somehow. These mean something; they started arriving after her first date with Viktor and have arrived after every one since. Lilies, roses, gerberas...they are hardly personal, but the knowledge that he has chosen them himself is enough for her.

She has no idea what his royal majesty is talking about; at this moment they smell lovely. Even the ones that have no particular scent still smell fresh, hiding the subtle scent of magical decay that tends to follow whatever he choses to do while she is out.

 _The second they show the slightest hint of decay, I'll throw them in the garbage_ Ginny writes with the quill that he has conveniently left on her desk for her. She suspects that she will leave them a few days beyond that if only because they're so striking that she is not sure she can bear to throw them out. She would almost call them beautiful had she not received a particularly lovely Amaryllis Lily from Neville that has taken pride of place above her television.

It is the note with Viktor's flowers that Ginny finds the most enticing: _I miss you_. Short, simple, but still it manages to thrill her. She flops back against the green sheets of her bed, letting the feeling thrum through her. It is almost as powerful as the sensation of winning a near impossible Quidditch match, and Ginny enjoys it, savouring each second as it slowly fades.

 _What are you doing tonight?_ She writes back, revelling in the spontaneity of it. If he is anything like her he will have a thousand plans for tonight. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, she finds the idea pleasing; Ginny prefers the knowledge that her life is not pre-planned for her; she supposes that it may be a test, whether Viktor fits into this or not, but she prefers to consider it a benchmark. If he is as enamoured as she is with the idea of freedom, then she can see herself dating him. If not...well, there are plenty of fish in the sea, as her mother says.

She could not say how long it is until he replies, relying as she does on her internal clock rather than a proper one. The most accurately she can define it is before she gets impatient rather than after, which Ginny supposes is enough for her.

 _I am. I will be finished at 11pm. Meet me at 11:15 at The Dancing Niffler?_

It is the most notorious club in town; somehow that makes it even more exciting for her. _I'll be there._

~**.**~

"You look lovely in black," Viktor decides. Ginny smiles, relaxing under the force of his gaze. She has lost count of their dates, as unexpected as they are. She is accustomed to counting things, whether they be days, moons or dates. Still she manages to lose track of her date with Viktor -- they are as unexpected as the final score of her matches: even when she wins, she will never know in advance by how much.

"I thought I looked lovely in everything," Ginny says tartly. Viktor has said that about everything that she has shown up in their dates for, from black to green to white to blue to gold. She is beginning to think that she can show up in one of her mother's Weasley jumpers and still look stunning, something that entertains her endlessly.

"You do," Viktor agrees. Ginny kisses his cheek in thanks, knowing full well that he is right. Beautiful she thinks she will never manage. Lovely is simply a result of effort.

Rather than answer Ginny smiles, reaching for Viktor's hand. It is calloused under her own, damaged from a thousand Quidditch games that she will never see. She runs her thumb over the palm of it, liking the feeling of his tanned skin against her own.

The song changes, as does the lighting. Closing her hand around Viktor's, Ginny pulls him gently towards the dance floor, pressing her eyes shut as she moves. The music enfolds her and she starts to dance around it, body twisting in time to the lyrics. Tilting her head Ginny exhales, falling into the pulsing light as the music palpitates around her. She can feel the pulse of it, replacing the beat of her heart as she twirls under the oscillating rhythm, breath falling into the pattern enveloping her.

It feels almost miraculous. Ginny shimmies closer to Victor, biting back a moan as his chest brushes against hers. She can feel the ghost of his warmth against her as she twists, hips brushing against his hardness as she loses herself in the music.

"I tink ve should leave," he whispers and Ginny shakes her head, eyes determinedly closed. She does not wish to leave yet; if she had her way she would stay here forever, the light of the disco ball pulsating under her closed lids, body brushing against Viktor's with every twist of her hips.

"I'm happy here," she say dreamily, clutching to him as he turns to move away. Her breath calms as she feels the press of his chest against her back, hard muscles folding around her. She thinks she could stay here forever, hair flying around her as she dances. "I like it here."

~**.**~

"Belladonna being, of course, one of the most potent poisons that a wizard can consume," Ginny hears, back pressed against the familiar wall of the Greenhouse. She is sure that it was 7th year that she heard this lecture herself, although it sounds far more interesting from Neville than it did her own teacher at the time.

Belladonna is nearly almost fatal, Ginny recall, running the lesson through in her mind. Painful, untraceable and almost impossible to detect: if Ginny were going to poison someone, Belladonna was the poison she would choose to employ.

The students file out with their usual sense of awe and Ginny cannot help but smile. She is still not entirely sure, after all her observation, whether it is the lesson or whether it is Neville that captures their imagination, although she tends to think it is the former. If Neville were that utterly fascinating, Ginny would like to think that she would have noticed it before this.

The students file out with their typical bewitched expressions, discussing the lecture in serious voices. A wry smile crosses Ginny's face as she waits for the to exit, a part of her wishing that she had found her lessons as interesting as Neville's students do his.

"It's also good for scrubbing one's cat," Ginny points out wryly, pasting on her best innocent expression as she watches Neville's face twist into a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "If, of course, your cat makes you want to strangle things with a pitchfork."

"Is that even possible?" Neville asks, a confused tilt to his mouth. Ginny smiles, angling her face to the floor with a bat of her eyelids. She waits for a moment, tapping fingers on her thigh as she does so. "I thought that, to strangle something...er...right. You're joking, aren't you?"

"I don't actually have a cat," Ginny confesses eventually, shrugging her shoulders. "If I did, I'm quite sure that I would have left it to clean itself of its own accord rather than bathing it myself."

Neville laughs as she leans back against the familiar wall, the stones cool under the flat press of her palms. "That was unfair," he says, leaning against the Professor's desk with a familiarity that makes her raise her eyebrows against her will. "You've always wanted a cat. Everything else you've wanted has come to pass, why not that?"

Ginny laughs along with him, pretending that his innocent comment hadn't cut her more than she is willing to consider, tossing her head in an attempt to hide it. "My flatmate won't allow it. I don't dare disagree."

"I didn't realise you were living with someone," Neville says, confusing Ginny with the distance in his tone. She had looked for a flatmate for...surely it must have been months before she found one? She had assumed that he would be happy for her.

"Someone who answered my ad," Ginny says, shrugging her shoulders and rolling her eyes in a far too practiced movement. "We don't get along in the slightest. Next time I think I'll just move in with one of my brothers."

~**.**~

"You left me," Viktor accuses playfully, skimming a hand over Ginny's hip. She is dancing, the music playing in the imitation-Muggle club inspiring the twist of her hips, the shift of her legs, the careful movement of her neck. "In the middle off a crowded restaurant. I should be offended, Ginevra."

This is not a new development for him, the use of her full name. He adopted it after the first time that she dragged him to a Muggle movie, on the advice of her father. While it had endeared him to the greater Weasley clan, Ginny was not entirely sure that she was impressed; there were far too many gratuitous displays of nakedness to fully be able to entertain her. They were balanced, she supposed, by the part where something exploded every time she could turn her head, but it was not enough to distract her from the lack of...well, plot.

"I had to get home," she grins, biting her lip as he pulls her to him, the curve of her arse pressing against his hardness as she throws her head back with a barely repressed moan. "You know my flatmate hates me being late."

"I tink you give him too much power," Viktor says, and Ginny cannot help but grin. He has heard many tales from her on the injustices of having to live with someone when she does not want to. She almost thinks that if she had counted them, she would have reached enough to write her own novel. "You are stronger than that, Ginevra."

"Of course I am," she laughs, pulling on the collar of his black shirt so she can place a soft, wet kiss on his cheek. His skin is hot against her lips and she finds herself lingering slightly longer than strictly necessary. "Alas, I still don't earn as much as you do."

It is meant as a jest, at least to Ginny, although Viktor's face twists slightly. If she choses to be honest, she supposes that it is not at all about being able to afford living without a flatmate. It is about the fact that, in the end, she is afraid to live alone. She has not been alone at any time in her living memory and she does not want to start now; surely even a horrid flatmate is better than living without one entirely.

"I can pay for a new house if you wish," he says awkwardly. Ginny shakes her head exuberantly, sighing in pleasure as it makes the room spin in a cacophony of colour and sound, the music beating in her veins as though she had composed it herself in a fit of ecstasy.

"You wouldn't understand. I like mine," she says dreamily, pressing her chest against his hard one, the play of muscles under flesh against her fingertips inflaming her. "I like the colours. All reds and golds. They're like passion, you know."

Apparently he does, because he does not say anything else to her about it. Instead he focuses on the brush of her hair against her neck, the way it grazes against her freckled skin and how, when he strokes it away, she cannot help but sigh in pleasure.

"Don't stop," she whispers, her breath catching in her throat. He moves around her, far more graceful than she would have credited him with. She slides a hand around his neck, playing in the dark hair at the back of his throat as she twines her body around the thumping beat. "Please."

It is not enough. There have been times like this before for her, when the screams, shrieks and bellows are not enough to fill the ache inside her. She scratches at her arms, forcing herself to smile for the cameras that she knows are following her.

Her skin itches, the need to lose herself so desperate that she can almost pretend she were anywhere but here. Pretend that she were the princess she had always dreamed of herself, hiding away from her avid kingdom in her crystal palace.

In her case, of course, fans replace the avid kingdom and the crystal palace is substituted with a stadium full of Quidditch lovers, but for the most part that has been enough. She cannot enumerate what is different this time, cannot define why her skin is crawling with loss when she lowers herself gently to the ground, pretending that the fading of her beloved screaming is nothing to her.

Standing under the stinging shower, Ginny tries to believe that the near loss is nothing to her; tries to pretend that she does not care that the victory was by mere points rather than the decades she is used to. Tries to convince herself that 'only just' is as good as 'utterly and completely'.

In the dressing room it is the 'good games' as much as anything that bothers her; surely they understand that the victory is only worthwhile when it is incontestable: when even the most die-hard fans of the other team cannot put the win down to umpiring decisions or to 'I swear she cheated _right there_ ', and surely the cup should be taken off her just for that.

No, Ginny prefers the victory to be absolute; to be so thorough that no one would ever dream of being able to point to one or two moments where something might have made a small difference. She tilts her head back under the scalding spray, breathing in the steam deeply, wanting to feel the same heat inside as she does outside.

"You should not blame yourself, Ginevra," a voice echoes in her ears and it takes Ginny a moment to realise that it was not coming straight out of her imagination. "You did very vell. It vos the others that let you down."

"A good team works together, they do not blame individual members for shortcomings," Ginny quotes, having been called before the coach more times than she could count on that particular point. She still didn't entirely believe it, but it was best to act as though she did rather than get herself in more trouble over it. "I should have been helping them more."

She opens her eyes, watching as Viktor strides towards her, admitting the curve of the Muggle clothing her had chosen to wear over his well-trained figure. "It is not the Seeker's place to do anything other than catch the Snitch," he says, amusing Ginny with the way his eyes are echoing over her own, unclothed form. She looks good this way, she knows; it would be impossible to exercise as much as Ginny does without seeing some result. Still, seeing the appreciation in his eyes goes a long way towards bolstering her self-confidence and she has to admit to a small thrill running through her at the idea of being watched like this.

"I don't recall giving you permission to be here," Ginny says with a teasing smile, wondering how he managed to get through her team-mates, most of which are very determined to keep the women's locker room restricted just to their kind. She peers past him to an empty room, the lockers closed and the occupants long since moved on. How long had she been here, that she didn't notice everyone else leaving?

"I did not realise that I needed your permission," he points out, continuing his slow path towards her. Ginny feels a hitch in her throat, an unwelcome distraction from the tight, too small feeling she has been fighting. She thinks she would prefer the smallness to the fear, to the catch of her breath in her throat and the pounding of her heart, as unaccompanied as it is by her preferred soundtrack of screams.

She presses herself back against the wall of the shower, skin cool as she loses the warmth of the water. Viktor pauses for a moment and Ginny relaxes, believing she must have gotten off light this time. Her relief fades a she raises her eyes to his and sees the predatory look in them. His hands reach to his shirt, undoing the buttons easily and Ginny closes her eyes, focussing on the sound of the water as it hits the tiled floor, holding her hand out to catch some of it on her palm.

It is a mistake, she realises too late, Viktor's lips caressing the skin of her inner wrist, his mouth blocking the flow of water to the place she swears she can feel the beat of her pulse. "Don't," she whispers, her voice reflecting her indecision. She doesn't want this, has developed a distaste for sex over the past years, but Viktor's touch, the way the caress of his lips on her skin and the sure way he takes her control from her pushes away the tightness, the itching, the smallness and any memory she had of a horrible game.

"Don't vot?" He asked, heaving her further back against the wall. Ginny whimpers at the demanding press of his body, flush against hers, parts she doesn't wish to _think_ about brushing between her legs and she cannot stop herself tensing in protest. "You do not really vont me to stop."

He picks her up, cradling her in a bizarre mix of gentleness and forcefulness, against the wall and Ginny has to bite her lip to stop from crying out. She moans his name, longing for the sting of the warm water against her skin as he pushes his way into her and she feels a barrier inside, long since gone, break.

"No," she moans, her hands pushing uselessly at his shoulders, even as her fingers caress the near-obscene length of his hair. She tilts her head back, telling herself that it is to get away from his questing mouth, nevertheless enjoying the fact that her skin feels alive rather than small, on fire with things that make her want to stop protesting. "God, Viktor..."

"Then this should haff happened sooner," he whispers in her ear, lips pressed to the curve of Ginny's neck as he continues to thrust inside her. Each movement brings a mix of pleasure and pain that makes her alternate between soft sighs and desperate whines as she tries to move herself away from the heat of his skin and the coldness of the tile behind her.

She is so used to her body obeying her every command that Ginny is entirely unprepared for the way her climax overtakes her. She is still fighting the intrusion, protesting the way his muscles flex as he pushes inside her that she almost misses the way she moans his name and the way her body tenses against her will, threads of electricity firing their way through her nerves as she comes against him.

That is meant to be the end of it; the multitude of unsatisfactory experiences Ginny has been a part of have taught her that by the time her partner manages to give her any form of satisfaction, he is almost guaranteed to be out of energy. Viktor proves her wrong, and she folds bonelessly against him as he continues to move inside her, grunting loudly before he pauses, moaning as Ginny feels an undesirable warmth spill inside her.

"Stop," she whispers. The ache she has so wished to go away has subsided; she can barely hear it over the rush of the shower.

 

~**.**~

It is dark before she finds her way back to her house; she was meant to be back by noon, her morning game supposed to ensure that she has the rest of the day for her own relaxation and leisure. She cannot pinpoint where the day has gone, could not for the life of her bring herself to recall where she has spent the time since Viktor left her, claiming he would be by to pick her up for dinner. The icing on the cake of her miserable day is the letter she has found from His Majesty, informing her that if she did not rid herself of at least 11 of the unwelcome plants clogging up his living space by 3pm, he would have to do so himself.

It is at least 6 hours beyond that now; Ginny does not particularly want to discover which of them he has taken from her, but she would prefer to know now than to spend the next hours worrying about it. It is this mindset that makes her slide her key into the lock with a sigh, seeing already the lack of light under the door. She is unsure how he manages to live without ever turning a light on, but somehow he seems to thrive in the darkness.

"Hello? Are you home?" Ginny sings as she walks in the door, muttering her last words under her breath. "Inspiring even the most cheerful of lemmings to jump off a cliff?"

He is perfect, something that makes him ever more difficult for Ginny to understand. The combination of his looks, wit and the charm he can employ when he so desires makes her sure that he could have any life he wants, but he still prefers to spend his time locked in their ridiculously small apartment, complaining about everything she does rather than living a life of his own.

"I'm here, Ginny," he says softly. Ginny pauses in the act of removing her cloak, hesitating for a moment before she tosses it carelessly on to the coat rack. She glares at his reflection in the hallway mirror, flouncing into the living room in a show of dramatics that she knows she will regret later.

He follows her, although Ginny does not grant him the respect of looking at him directly. Instead she focuses her attention on the blank screen of the television and the distorted show of his dark hair and angry eyes. "Your presence has been the one missing, if I recall correctly."

Ginny smirks, shrugging her shoulders uncaringly. She enjoys this; enjoys the way that she can work him up in ways that no one else can. How she can make him almost _worry_ about her, even when nothing else in the world can make him afraid.

"I had a game this morning," she says easily, placing her feet, attached to strangely aching legs, on the coffee table. She looks around the room, noting that all her plants are in exactly the same place they were when she left in the morning. It is rare, and she starts at it; normally when His Majesty threatens something, he carries through before Ginny has a chance to protest it. "And I spent the day out."

"Out _where_?" He asks, eyes piercing into hers, even in the murky reflection of their small screen TV. She barely uses it, she realises with a jolt, and knows he never would. He is far too distrustful of Muggle technology to even consider it. His is the first face she has seen projected in it in months.

"I was..." Ginny pauses, mouth twisting in a parody of a smile. "I've been..."

Her smile fades and she wracks her memory for a series of events to taunt him with, but nothing comes. His own grin widens, and she can barely resist the temptation to throw something at him, even if it is only in reflection.

"You were with _him_ , weren't you?" He asks, smile twisting into something darker, something that Ginny would chose not to define had she the choice at all. _Him_ has only meant one thing in this house over the past weeks, and even as she wishes to fully deny it, she is unable to properly lie.

"I wasn't," she whispers. It is the truth, but her mind cannot help but flash back to the morning; to the press of Viktor's body against her own and the way that she arched against him, protests robbed from her mouth even as she forced her eyes closed against him. "I wasn't with him."

"You were," he says, his voice thick. There is a dangerous undertone to it and Ginny pulls her feet off the table, curling herself into a ball on the couch. There is a line with his moods, and she suspects that she has crossed it without noticing. She can deal with him before that line; after it terrifies her.

Her eyes widen as she sees him move towards her in the television's reflection and she makes herself smaller in the vain hope that it would mean he would no longer be able to see her. "You were with your Quidditch player, Ginny. Even after you _promised_ me, after you _swore_ that you would be faithful..."

Ginny does not remember making the promise; she cannot recall her lips forming the words, or the desperate, passionate intent behind them, but she knows that she must have done so. She glares at his pale form in the domed surface, wishing with all she is capable of that she had never made the vow, and knowing equally as well that she will never be able to get out of it. Promises are the one thing in her life that she can guarantee will be forever.

"Only in the morning," she whispers, desperate not to give more away than would be safe for them. She can see in his eyes, almost instantly, that he knows; somehow he always knows, no matter what effort she makes to keep her secrets from him. "He came to see me after the game. It was only for a second, and the rest of the day I was..."

She trails off, the glow in his dark eyes disturbing her. She wants to yell that she has spent the day with him, that all of the time she was missing was spent in his bed, fucking him until neither of them could remember their own names, but her voice catches in his throat before she can say anything more than 'we'. "We uh...we..."

She closes her eyes against the 'don't' that echoes through her mind, knowing that she had never consented; knowing that if she had really protested, she would have been able to fight Viktor off easily.

"He touched you," he says and Ginny cringes at how cold he sounds. She wants to fall to her jean-clad knees in front of him and beg for forgiveness, but she knows that such a weakness would not help her case at all now. "Did he screw you after the game, Ginny? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Ginny shakes her head, biting on her lip. A metallic taste hits her tongue before she realises that she has drawn blood. She wishes that she could let it stream down her chin, accompanied by the tears that she has never been able to shed, but knows that such a show of weakness would only make her case more difficult to argue.

"It wasn't like that," she says weakly, turning to face him, finding the space he had occupied only a moment ago empty. He is able to move more quickly than anyone else Ginny has ever known, and she has she momentary, irrational feeling that perhaps he should have been the professional Quidditch player.

"Then what was it like?" He asks from behind her, and Ginny spins her head around expecting to see him there, finding only his reflection again. He never seems to want her to see him properly; it is yet another of his many powers over her.

"I...I never wanted..." She clenches her eyes closed to prevent the tears that she knows he hates, fisting her hand into the soft fabric of their couch. "He just...and I..."

She had wanted it in some way, she knows. The sex itself she could have lived her life without experiencing, but she had wanted an end to this. An end to the fear, to the knowledge that whatever she did would never be good enough, that even brilliance would not be enough if she could not reach perfection.

"He took it from you?" He asks and Ginny nods involuntarily. His voice is angry, in the way that he own actions cannot ever inspire. She supposes that it should be comforting – she can anger him, always, but what always infuriates him most is the times that he is being protective of her. "Without your desire?"

"He'll be here soon," Ginny begs, gesturing towards his bedroom. "I don't want you to hurt him, and I did want it. I wouldn't have let him if I didn't, you taught me that well enough."

As surely as if she is Cassandra Trelawney herself, the doorbell rings and every fibre of Ginny knows that it is Viktor out there waiting for her. "Move away, Ginny," he says, his voice full of poison and she shakes her head emphatically.

"I'll get him," she pleads, standing to move towards the door. "I'll get rid of him if you like, just please leave him alone. He doesn't deserve you."

He doesn't deserve what you'll do to him, she amends mentally, already moving towards the ringing bell at the front door. She resists the urge to shriek, as much as she knows it would make her feel better. Screaming is to be reserved only to times that she does not directly cause it, to times that she cannot possibly be blamed for it.

"I never agreed to that," he says, voice tickling her neck that he is so close, and Ginny closes her eyes in terror. "It has been mine since the first, and should always remain such."

Her mind flashes back to that first time; to the creeping darkness she felt in the cold room as he took her, and the remembrance of the only time she has felt entirely full, without a trace of emptiness in her at all. "I miss it," she whispers, courage bolstered slightly by the approval on his face.

She flinches as she opens the front door to Viktor, trying nonetheless to paste a convincing smile on her face.

"Come in," she says, small and sick, wishing she could not see the surprise on Viktor's face. She tries to wave him away from the door, tossing her hair over her shoulder in an attempt to indicate the man lurking in the shadows behind her, but Viktor still steps through the door as though she had welcomed him in. "Just...I'm sorry, it's a bad time. You could come back later, if you want, or...well, just ignore my flatmate, he gets angry sometimes, and really...I could just meet you at the restaurant if you like."

She is babbling, she knows, and the hysterical part of her wishes that she could be anywhere other than where she is right now. Thankfully the larger part of her acknowledges that if she were anywhere else she would not be able to stop what is about to happen, and she manages to be grateful for that.

Viktor peers into the shadows behind her, his lips twisting into a confused smile. "Ginevra, are you all right?" He asks slowly, his body moving to stand in front of her as though he would be able to protect her from this. She pushes him aside, pressing him against the wall in an echo of their positions that morning, smiling at _him_.

"I'm fine," she says thickly, trying to inch them towards the door, Viktor refusing to budge behind her. "Let's just go. I'll talk to you later about this, I promise."

She pushes uselessly at Viktor's shoulders, pleading with her eyes for him to move just a few steps back, out the door, so that they could be away from here before everything went catastrophically wrong. "You are not dressed for the restaurant," Viktor says stubbornly, his dark eyes still piercing into the stillness behind her, and Ginny wants to hit him for being so thick. "I told you there vos a formal dinner, and you are still dressed in the clothes you vore when you left me."

Ginny shakes her head in protest -- Viktor left her, they both knew this, and she cannot understand why he would deny it when she was already consenting to leave the apartment with him. "Viktor, let's _go_ ," she whispers urgently, pushing against his midsection in the vain hope that it will be more effective than pushing against his shoulders. "He's angry enough, we don't want to make him more so."

To her horror, Ginny's urgent words seem to prompt Viktor into action and he moves past her momentarily paralysed form to confront the hallway, turning to face her, voice filled with bravado. "Who is angry, Ginevra?" He asks, spreading his arms out as though they are wings, tilting his head in apparent victory. "Tell him to confront me himself, if he is man enough."

Ginny winces, pointing to _his_ reflection in the mirror, face half in shadow, half illuminated by the hallway light, body involuntarily pressing against the panelled wall. She sinks to the floor, closing her eyes to try and force strength into her failing heart, taking a deep breath before she is able to open them again. "Please," she whimpered, not knowing whether he was pleading to Viktor or _him_ , knowing that curses would be exchanged as much as she knew who would be the winner of this competition. "Just...please..."

Viktor smiles, eyes narrowing in confusion as he stares in the mirror. Ginny laughs, forcing back a whimper as _his_ eyes narrow in response, biting harder on the split lip she had caused herself earlier. The desperate belief that any of them would be able to make it out of her apartment unscathed fades a little more, and her reflection in the mirror looks decidedly sick.

"Please just let us go," she begs, knowing full well that pleading has never saved her from his wrath before. "I'll be back before midnight, it's just a dinner..."

Viktor starts in indignation, opening his mouth to protest her words, turning his attention towards the mirror. He laughs, for an almost infinitesimally small moment, his brown eyes focussing on her own. "Ginevra, there is no one there."

Ginny gives in to her hysteria for a moment, pointing again towards the mirror. She cannot understand, in that second, why she is trying to protect someone who is so thick that he cannot understand he is about to be cursed into oblivion. " _Him_ ," she shrieks, signalling blindly into the darkness, unable to fathom why he can be seen so clearly in the mirror while he is invisible in the shadows. "He's right _there_ , Viktor, now can we go, _please_?"

Something in Viktor's face changes, and Ginny falters under his darkening gaze. "This is not funny, Ginevra, your joke is over. Now get up." Ginny moans, shaking her head in frustration. She points again towards _his_ reflection in the mirror, giggling irrationally at the contrast between his angry face and Viktor's confused one. Somehow that is how this always ends. "Stop it."

"Stop it?" She laughs in disbelief, cowering further into the wall, refusing the hand that Viktor offers her. "I said that to you before, remember, and you still...you still..."

Ginny falters, shaking her head. For the briefest moment _he_ disappears in the shadows and she wishes with all her might that he would stay that way. Still, as always, when she stills herself he is there again, his eyes meeting hers in the full-length mirror and she wants to throw something at one of them for being so frustrating.

"Viktor, meet my roommate," she says, endeavouring to sound as her mother did when she was entertaining guests, only the brittle edge to her voice giving her away. "Majesty, meet Viktor. We've been...we..."

Ginny's voice fades away. She cannot find an adjective to describe what Viktor is to her. She doubts that _he_ will allow anything less than 'the love of her life', considering he knows her indecision over the morning's activity, as much as she doubts Viktor's ability to understand her relationship to her flatmate.

"The one who hurt you," _he_ says, eyes boring into Ginny's. She shakes her head in frustration, trying to find a way, any way, to describe that even if she hadn't wanted it, the largest part of her had craved it. It had managed to fill the emptiness _he_ had created in her, just for a moment. It was the first moment she could recall, in almost ten years, that she had felt properly alive. "The one who took from you what had always belonged to me."

Ginny moans, clenching her hands into fists so tight that she feels her nails dig wet half-moons into her palm. "It doesn't belong to you," she groans, letting her head fall back against the wall. "It belongs to me, it doesn't belong to you, it belongs to me..."

"Ginevra!" Viktor snaps sharply and Ginny is barely able to force her attention away from _him_ enough to focus on her unexpected lover. "This is not funny."

"I'm not laughing!" She snaps, glaring at him. How can he possibly think that she's joking about this, when the look on _his_ face indicates clearly that he is deadly serious. "I don’t think this is funny either, Viktor, but you don't understand how angry he can get."

" _Who_?" Viktor explodes, reaching down to yank Ginny to her feet, turning her towards the darkened hallway. "How angry who can get?"

" _Him_ ," she shrieks, abandoning any semblance of composure. "For fuck's sake, Viktor, stop pretending he's not there. He hates that."

Viktor pushes her away, turning her to face him, his brown eyes boring into hers. She examines his face, trying to read on it the excitement that she has found so fascinating over the past weeks, finding only a grave seriousness that matches the one on Percy's face when he told her they had lost Fred. "Ginevra," he says through gritted teeth, whirling her around and forcing her in front of the mirror. "There is no one there."

Ginny gapes, wondering at how he can sound so convinced as he says that, when they are both clearly looking at exactly the same reflection. _His_ dark eyes drill into hers and she has to turn her face away from the accusation reflecting in them, mirroring her own betrayal and Ginny can barely prevent herself from crying out with the shame.

"I'm sorry," she whimpers, reaching her hand out to touch his face in the mirror, eyes pleading for understanding. "I'm sorry, please...please don't look at me like that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

Tracing her fingers over the curve of his jaw, she can barely breathe with the humiliation of what she has done to them both; how can she possibly be meant to make it up to him?

"Ginevra, there is no one there," Viktor says from behind her and Ginny wails, fingers cold against the smooth surface of the mirror. "It is just the two of us there. I am not laughing at this joke."

Ginny sobs, collapsing in his grip, doubling over. She thinks she would have fallen to the floor if his arm were not around her waist, and she reaches for her want, attached as it always is to her belt. "He's _there_!" She insists, gesturing emphatically towards the clear image in her vision, infuriated at the fact that he just won't _look_.

" _ **Who**_?" Viktor bellows, forcing Ginny upright to stare at the mirror. "Who is there?"

" _Tom_ ," she shrieks, pointing her finger towards the mirror, his reflection as clear as day, as obvious as he has always been to her. His eyes narrow in approval, and she cringes that she could not have managed to obtain this before now. "It's Tom. Why can't you see him? Why does everyone say they can't see him?"

Ginny slumps, her dead weight becoming heavy enough that she inspires even Viktor to let her go. Why is it always like this? She drives everyone away like this; her honesty about her companion has driven away everyone she has loved: Harry, Seamus, Theodore and now Viktor...all of them gave her the same speech about 'help' and 'understanding', and it is only the quickness of Tom's spells that has saved her at all.

"Obliviate."

~**.**~

 

Tom's spell echoes in her ears long after he has vanished from her view. Ginny knows that if she raises her head to view the mirror she will see him again, a constancy that has always been a comfort to her. She can pretend to hate him, to be frustrated, to dislike the notes that he leaves her, but the one thing she can always say for him is that he has always been here for her.

"It is alright, Ginny," he whispers in her ear. Ginny's face crumples and she turns her head to where she had heard the noise, finding it as empty as it has always been. "I am here."

Ginny forces herself to her feet, turning to face the empty air. "No you're not," she said, closing her eyes so that she is not forced to look in the mirror. "You're not here. If you were here, they could see you, and none of them ever can, it's just me."

"Ignore them," he soothes her, and Ginny can almost feel the touch of his hand ghosting over the back of her neck. "They couldn't see me the first time either, could they? I was still there, with you, when no one else wanted to."

"You're not real," she whispers, the stunned horror on Viktor's face still fresh in her mind as she presses her nails into her thighs, trying to gather the courage to open her eyes. "You were never real."

She forces her eyes open, facing his gaze in the mirror. She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the vision of him from her view. Even as her head twists Tom remains constant in her eyesight and Ginny feels her chest constrict in fury.

"You're _not real_ ," she hisses through gritted teeth, forcing herself to her feet. Reaching for the Quidditch trophy she left on the hallway table she throws it at the mirror, sheltering her face as it shatters into a thousand pieces. When she raises her eyes again she sees a fractured piece of glass, each piece reflecting a near-identical image of her face.

Stalking into the living room, Ginny reaches for the nearest heavy object she can find, a paperweight in the shape of a dragon given to her by Charlie for a long-forgotten birthday. She throws it at the television, ignoring the brief flash of a handsome face in it before it smashes against the onslaught, glass slashing at her bare arms as she turns towards the glass table.

Thankfully there is no shortage of heavy objects for Ginny to throw as she methodically shatters each reflective surface she comes across, feeling a petty measure of satisfaction every time she sees his face erased from a surface she is used to seeing him in.

It is the bathroom mirror that goes last; even as she breaks it, Ginny can still feel him behind her, his breath tickling her throat as he whispers. "I'm still here. You can't rid yourself of me that easily."

Ginny whirls, expecting to see a physical manifestation of him, an explanation of why it has been so easy to believe, but still there is nothing. Growling, she moves back to the living area, to where she has left her bag, packed with the parchment and quill she has been carrying for years without once questioning _why_.

It is not as easy to smash these pieces, although she tries to crumple them for a few frustrating moments. Despite her efforts, his messages are still visible on them; a hundred messages warning her of infractions that Ginny knows she has not yet committed, of mistakes she has not yet made. She tries to tear at them, but even in tiny pieces they still _exist_ , a reminder that no matter what she tries, she cannot be rid of them.

Her wand is on the floor beside her. It takes her a moment to register, but it is sitting beside her as it always seems to do, even without her conscious consent. She reaches for it slowly, turning it over in her hand, the familiar curves almost alien in her hand.

Ginny glares at the piles of paper. She could leave them, she knows, but if she does so, she is sure they will just return as threats later. No, she has to get rid of them, the same way she did the mirrors. She has to make him _go away_ , make herself see the same things that everyone else does, if it destroys every part of her to do it.

It is strangely easy to gather the other pieces of parchment, the ones that she remembers reading already. If she had been asked, she would not be able to list the countless places she had kept them, but somehow she is able to unearth them all and she places them on the same, neat pile on her carpet. They are all signed in the same way; _H_. _H_ for _Him_.

Ginny shivers as she points her wand at the mass of paper, a strange breeze tickling at the back of her neck. "You don't want me to go," she whispers, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "You want me to stay with you forever; that's why you kept me here, even after you lost the diary."

Closing her eyes, Ginny makes a last, desperate effort to ignore the curve of her own mouth, pointing her wand in determination at the pile of parchment. "Incendio."

The flame glows orange as it burns its way though the parchment, the carpet, the floor. Even when the fire she has constructed burns itself out, she watches, expecting at any moment that a handsome face will form itself out of the ashes. Her lower lip twitches, and Ginny has to hold on to the side of the couch to keep herself upright. It isn't fair...it isn't fair that he exists only because she let him. He's stronger than her, smarter; surely his own ingenuity played some part in keeping him alive.

Ginny barely manages to stagger to where she keeps her owl, realising belatedly that there is not an intact piece of parchment left in the apartment. It takes a full investigation of her home to find a takeaway menu, by which point she cannot bring herself to write a full message.

"Help me. Please, Merlin, please help me."

 

~**.**~

 

Ginny wakes to the feel of fingers running through her hair, and a soft, soothing crooning echoing through her ears. She starts, forcing herself upright, terrified that she had simply shifted from once voice to another, barely restraining a sob as she sees Neville there.

"It's ok," he whispers, eyes wide in confusion, one hand holding tight to her own. "I've taken care of the fire, and I've fixed the mirrors. Just tell me who did it, and I'll get the Aurors to take care of it..."

Ginny shakes her head, one unwelcome sob escaping her. She clings tightly to his hand, pressing her lips to it in supplication. If he calls for the Aurors, she will be lost, she knows. There is no way that she can hide from them, they know everything. That is why she was not allowed to join them when she wanted to; why she had to turn to Quidditch instead. They never said a thing, but Ginny had been sure that she could see the truth staring back out at her from their questioning eyes.

"Don't call them," she begs, lips staying pressed against his hand because she cannot bring herself to pull away from the tingling aliveness it inspires against her skin. "It's nothing. It was just an accident, I'm so sorry..."

She watches him through her tear-stained lashes, seeing the conflicting emotions flicker across his faces. "Your flatmate hurt you, didn't he?" He says eventually, voice slow and controlled. "We need to report this, before he hurts you again."

"He won't," Ginny whispered, swiping impatiently at the wet tracks making their way down her cheeks. "He can't. It's not possible."

Neville leans down slowly, eyes piercing into hers carefully as he places a soft kiss on her lips. He looks confused, but does not move away from her, even as she starts, finally, to cry properly. "It's all right," he says softly, his hand resting reassuringly on her back. "Just tell me what happened."

~**.**~

"And then, of course, I had to spend three hours cleaning the purple off the greenhouse walls," Neville says finally, fingers trailing through Ginny's hair. He leans down to press a soft kiss to her forehead and she smiles, fingers resting on top of his as he pauses over her brow. "Which is why I'm late. I'm sorry, love, I didn't mean to be."

Ginny pulls herself upright, curling her legs underneath her. "You should have hexed them all green," she says, turning her face so that she can kiss his fingers. Stretching her legs, she raises her arms above her head, stretching as though she can convince either of them that she has not moved from their sofa since Neville left for the morning. "They deserve it for taking you away from me."

Neville laughs, and Ginny congratulates herself for managing it. It isn't hard, she admits, but it is still a wonder to her that she can make someone so completely happy just by being herself and she thinks that she will exploit the talent as much as possible until he is entirely sick of it.

"Somehow I think that might be illegal," Neville says, settling himself on the lounge as Ginny swings a leg over his lap, straddling him carefully. "Or at least immoral. One of the two."

Wrapping her arms around him, Ginny rests her head against Neville's throat, her gaze trained on the wall opposite them. It was she that had chosen the print that graced it and Neville had had it framed in non-reflective glass. Sometimes, while he was gone, she would stand in front of it, tilting her head to try and see something. The most she had accomplished so far was convincing herself that the green leaf was in fact turning puce.

It had seemed pointless in the end; it was easier to spend her days cleaning their home, learning to cook, practicing her Quidditch. That way she did not need to report back to Neville in the evening that she had spent the day looking at her reflection, something that always made him wilt in sadness. No, she preferred days like this, when the worst thing she had to explain was why they were having beans on toast for dinner again.

"I burned the steak," she whispers, fingers playing in Neville's pale hair. He laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"That's all right," he says, trailing his hand down her back. "I felt like soup anyway."

Ginny smiles, tilting her face to his so that she can kiss him properly. There is none of the raw abandon she had shared with Viktor, nor any of the abolition of emptiness that Tom had inspired with her; instead there is a gentleness, an electricity that sets every cell of her body on fire. "I love you," she whispers as he slides a comforting hand across her back.

Neville smiles back, resting his forehead against hers as he plays with her hair. "I love you too, Gin."


End file.
